


Wake Up

by hollowedyves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Changing POV, F/M, Implied Cannibalism, Multi, Other, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowedyves/pseuds/hollowedyves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark Stiles drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Totally unbeta'd. Posted because I showed it to my best friend and she said I should, also I haven't posted anything on here in a while. There are dark themes in here, and romanticized discussions of self harm and other triggers. Please notify me if I fail to tag appropriately. You know your own limits, please take care of yourself and use caution.

After **He** is gone, Stiles dreams. The dreams are terrifying and seductive. He hates how much he loves them.

There’s a woman, calling to him. She calls his name, his real name, and her voice echoes around his mind. He’s always chasing her, because he knows when he finally can catch her, he’ll get to have her. He has only seen glimpses of her, but she’s perfect. She looks like Lydia. Malia. Allison. Kira. Heather. He can tell when she’s been nearby, because the way she smells sends chills up his spine. She smells familiar, like home, like warmth he wants to bury himself in, and his chest aches for it. He thinks, distantly, that she might smell like his mother. Whenever he smells her he wakes up and he’s hard. Sometimes he’s crying.

Her voice reminds him what it was like to have power. To be sure of himself. He starts thinking about the taste of blood in his mouth. He starts thinking about the next time Malia sits on his face, if he just never stopped eating, and he tore her open, and she would scream for a whole different reason. She says She likes when Stiles thinks like that. She says She likes him when he’s wild. He thinks he likes it too, especially when She says She does. The dreams are his and his alone, and he is ashamed of them. But mostly, he’s ashamed of the burning satisfaction that coils up through his groin and makes his blood sing.

He doesn’t tell Scott. Scott wouldn’t approve, wouldn’t let Stiles keep his secret rendezvous with a woman who looks like every woman he’s ever fantasized about who flits through the moonlight forest of his mind, taunting him. Scott would make him get help, make sure that Stiles couldn’t be hurt. Maybe Stiles wants to be hurt. Maybe he actually craves it, maybe he starts hearing Her purr in his ear when he’s awake, also.

He wants to start small, so he starts on himself. Starts smoking cigarettes as an excuse to stub them out into his creamy skin that he hated until She told him how much she loved it. Sits in his bathtub when his dad isn’t home and rubs the burning embers into his thighs, pressing it in until he’s crying and the veins in his arms stand out from biting into his fist to not make noise. It hurts, but he thinks it’s what he needs. He tries giving a few experimental slices to his other thigh, but those don’t feel as good. Sting instead of burn. It’s not enough. That night in his sleep, he whimpers. His thigh is throbbing, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. She croons to him and tells him that he’s doing so good, he is so beautiful. “If you don’t want to, why don’t you do it to someone else? Make them hurt,” She whispers, her laughter surrounding him.

When Stiles wakes up this time, he isn’t scared anymore. He’s at peace.


	2. Pt. 2

It's starting to get bad again.

Your hands almost never stop shaking and you have to start writing things down constantly. Because you can’t remember if you’ve done your homework from last night or last week, when the last time you saw your dad was or if Donovan’s blood was red or black. Without Scott, you’re spinning out of control, and you kind of like it that way. You like the sick, twisted churning in your gut, like a rusty knife, and you know that you deserve to feel this way.

Whatever you’ve done or whatever you’re about to do, you deserve it. Whenever you open your mouth you want to scream and whenever you hold something it takes effort not to throw it. Destroy it. Destroy everything so it can be how you feel, how it felt when you shivered in the rain baring yourself and the one person you needed to believe you turned his back on you. You _saw_ how he looked at you, like he was afraid, like you were a stranger.

It hurts so much you can’t bear it and you start listening to the other voice in your mind that purrs in your ear. It’s bliss, or a form of it anyway, and it begs to be let in, although you know it never really left. When you let the final piece of your resolve slip, it feels like a lock clicks into place, and you can’t remember why you ever denied yourself the pleasure of being in control.

Yeah, you think. It’s starting to get bad again.


End file.
